


These Wings were Meant to Fly

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Prompted Works [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, theres some mentions of violence and injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 00:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5227751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: What if Mairon once had wings but they were taken from him. Imagine that they were of a creamy white and dragged behind him as he walked, that they only improved his angelic look. Imagine that he was held captive in the very first battle of Arda and in his captivity his wings were cut off while he was conscious and then delivered to the Valar (he hadn't joined Melkor yet) as a way of saying "I got him, I can get you too". Then everyone thought Mairon was dead until someone brought him back. But when they brought him back, he was severely wounded both mentally and physically. After the incident, he still has the scars and his shoulder blades have a slight salience on them, no matter what form he takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Wings were Meant to Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Celebbun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebbun/gifts).



> This was sent to me by a friend of mine. I don't know if they meant for it to be used as a drabble prompt, but it was. (find them as White-Lady-of-The-Greenwood on tumblr)

Aulë pressed his hand to the smooth wood of the door, afraid of entering. What would he find once he went inside? Was there anything left of his Maia? He had been under Melkor's control for so long that perhaps his very mind had come undone. It was not unheard of, after all.

He could still remember it, the wings left on the floor of the chamber where the Valar held counsel. Angelic and white, and stained by blood they had just laid on the ground, unmoving. They had been so confused, at first. Not knowing what it could possibly mean. Who would – who could have – done such a thing? Tulkas had suggested it was Melkor, but Manwë, of course, had insisted that it could not be his brother. Then they had found the note, tucked into the ruffled feathers, and his determination had faded. Mine, it had read, in Melkor's unmistakeable handwriting.  

Now Aulë stood at the door to his room, afraid to enter. What should he do? What should he say? What could he do or say that would even help the other? Nothing.

Finally he pushed it open, peering inside. "Mairon?" he asked, looking around.  

There was a rustle from across the room, a soft groan as someone sat up. "Hello?" Mairon didn't look at him. He had sat slightly up in his bed, but his back was to Aulë, his face turned down. The Maia's voice was hoarse from years of misuse and underuse and barely more than a whisper.

Aulë stood in the door a while longer, not certain what to say. He smiled, trying to be reassuring, walking across the room and asking, "How are you?"

Mairon sunk into the pillows on his bed, sighing quietly. "Well enough," he whispered.

"Only just well?" Aulë sat beside him, terrified by the distance he felt between them. Once he had understood everything Mairon said or did, now he was as confused by his actions as he was by those of a stranger.

"It would have been better if this never happened."

His hoarse voice made Aulë wince before he even understood his words. "Mairon," he said, looking away. "I wish that too."

"Why didn't you do anything?" It wasn't a question as much as it was an accusation.  

Aulë patted his hand, thinking carefully before saying, "We thought you had gone for good."

"I wish I had," Mairon replied after a moment. "It would have been better than this." He rolled onto his side, wrapping the blankets around himself.

"Don't say that!" Aulë objected, placing his hand on Mairon's shoulder. "At least you're alive and well. You're breathing, aren't you? What's so terrible about that?"

Mairon shook off his hand. "I was hurt." He finally turned his head toward Aulë, revealing a long scar down one cheek from above his eye down through his lip, and a bruise that caused his other eye to nearly swell shut. That was not the extent of his injuries of course, but it was the ones that hurt Aulë the most. He felt as though he ought to have done more to help him.

"I know," the Vala promised, ignoring the churning of his stomach at the sight of Mairon's wounds. "I wish I could have done more to help you, Mairon. I truly do. Had I known you were alive..." his voice caught.

"What?" Mairon asked roughly. "What would you have done?"

"Anything," he said with determination.  

Mairon scoffed. "It's easy to say that," he accused. "To claim you might have helped. I thought I could be brave, but I wasn't. I thought I would protect you, but I didn't. Melkor could never have destroyed the Lamps as easily and totally without information about them. Who do you think told him?" His face was pulled into a scowl. "I told him, I found that I was frightened enough to do anything, even things I never thought possible before."

The news that Mairon had assisted in the destruction of one of his greatest achievements came as a crushing blow, even more so after realizing the duress that Mairon must have been put under to have given away such priceless information.  

The Maia had turned his back again, staring weakly at the wall, shoulders slumped. Aulë reached out and placed his hand on Mairon's shoulder, but drew back when Mairon winced. "Mairon?"

"Hurts," he muttered, reaching back to rub his shoulder. When he moved his shirt slipped back and revealed a long scar trailing down his shoulder blade, where his wing ought to have been. Aulë winced, his stomach knotting as he remembered the blood pooling around the angelic white wings. "Sorry," he repeated.  

"You don’t need to be sorry."

Mairon didn't reply for a long time, his shoulders shaking as he kept his back to Aulë. "It's all my fault," he said finally.  

"No," Aulë promised, "it's not."  

Mairon remained facing determinedly away from Aulë as he shook his head. "I could have done more! I should have done more!"

Aulë reached to assure him again, resting his hand on Mairon's shoulder, closer to his neck, away from his open wounds. "No, Mairon. Please," he whispered. "Calm down."

Mairon inhaled deeply, sighing. "If you say so," he said softly, not sounding as if he truly believed what he was saying.  

Aulë's heart twisted. He wanted to help the Maia, but he could not think of a way to. Mairon curled up, shifting so that he could lay on his side, with Aulë's hand still resting gently on his shoulder. "I insist," he said, beginning to rub his shoulder. "And I insist you rest. Please."  

"Alright."  

Aulë stood, patting Mairon's hair before leaving. "Rest well," he said. He walked to the door, stopping and glancing over his shoulder. Mairon was laying right where he had been left, curled into a pitiful ball. He returned to his seat, patted Mairon's back – still mindful of his injuries – and said, "I can stay a while."  

Mairon relaxed into the blankets, sighing softly. "Thank you."  


End file.
